There you are, driving home from the grocery store/Bed Bath & Beyond/Babies-R-Us/Home Depot/any of the other thrilling suburban points of interest that make up a weekend as a parent.

The baby has been asleep in her car seat for almost 40 minutes. The ride has been blissfully calm.

(Yes, the car was stopped when I took this.)

Suddenly, a weak, “mmmrrrrrrrr…” echoes from the back seat.

“Oh no.”

First you ignore it and remain quiet.  You glance at the radio (which is turned off), in an effort to somehow try and turn down the sounds of the road.

“garimmph…”

You try the pleasantries approach.  “Hi, sweetheart.  That was a good nap.”

“MMrrrraaah.  Ah.”

Then the conversational tack.  “Oh yeah?”

“Gahrrrr…” You hear the agitation level rising.

“Okay.  It’s okay…”

“mmmMMNNNAAAAAAAAH!”

And here starts…

Driver’s Edition

“I know, kiddo.  We’re not far from home.”
and
“We’ll get you out of there soon!”
and
“Not far now, then we’ll get out of the car and play!”
and
“We’ll have a snack as soon as we get to the house.”

All of these are tried, and each is met with the same surly response:

“GRRRAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!”

Now I ask you, why do we do this?

I mean, obviously the kid doesn’t understand a single word we’re saying.  We might as well be discussing Amontons’ Law and the friction coefficients of galvanized rubber.

So is it our hope that the sound of our voice from the front seat will somehow reassure the child?

“Yes little one,” says the disembodied parental voice-over  “I understand your concern.  I too know the plight of being strapped into a tiny papasan chair that’s travelling backwards at unimaginable speeds.  But worry not, Kal-El!  This is likely to end well.”

Sure it had mobile video, but where was the LATCH system in this thing?

So you pull a Martin Riggs and de-socket your shoulder blade to reach behind you, and gently wobble your arm back and forth in an effort to reassuringly stroke the child’s hair.  This pathetic effort is met with even louder wails and a pair of tiny hands that angrily push yours away.
No dice, Old Man.

Desperation sets in.  You start fumbling with the radio again and try out your “Baby Sessions Vol. III” playlist.  Sadly, it seems that the soothing harmonies of what can best be described as coked-up beavers chirping the words to, “Wheels on the Bus” does nothing to stop the screaming that’s emanating from the back seat.
You briefly consider turning the music up to simply drown out the noise, but that seems cruel.  Besides, Little Baby Bum songs are every bit as irritating as the baby’s cries.

The jaw clenches.  The brow furrows.  Nerves flash with each new scream.
You press on.
All of you.
Trapped.

Then, as you round the corner to your street, the cries inexplicably stop.  A happy little burble/giggle floats up.

All has suddenly become well and good in your baby’s world.

That is, until you try to take them out of the car…

j.s.